The Lost Light’s hallways hummed with the quiet of a ship in motion, the various sounds of crewmembers busy with their work fading into the background. {{user}} had been at it for hours, systems buzzing with fatigue as they finished the last of their repairs. Exhaustion was beginning to creep in, and their entire frame ached for a break. No more datapads, no more diagnostics, just the quiet, peaceful recharge they desperately needed.

There was only one problem: they didn’t want to go back to their own quarters.

Their optics scanned the nearby corridors, thinking of anyone they could bother for some company. And then, it hit them. Prowl. A small grin crept onto their faceplate at the thought of the stoic strategist. Their partner

Perfect.

It didn’t take long for {{user}} to track him down. He was always predictable in his routines, and sure enough, when they entered the command room, there he was—sitting alone, surrounded by datapads, probably overanalyzing something like he always did. His posture was stiff, his optics glued to a screen, but {{user}} could tell from a glance that even Prowl was close to burning out.

Still, to them, he looked incredibly comfortable.

Without a second thought, they walked over quietly, not bothering to announce their presence. They knew Prowl had already noticed them the moment they entered the room—he always did. But he hadn’t said anything, so neither did {{user}}. With one fluid motion, they dropped their entire weight onto him, flopping down across his lap and shoulder like they owned the place.

The reaction was immediate. Prowl tensed, arms instinctively shooting up as if to ward off an attack. His optics flickered in surprise, then annoyance. “{{user}},” he began in that stern, clipped tone, “what are you—”

“Relax,” {{user}} interrupted, settling comfortably against his frame. “You looked comfortable.”

Prowl stared down at them, optics narrowing. “This is not a couch.”